Ken Goddard - Chimera

Sighing in resignation, Bulatt picked up the torn piece of aluminum cowling by the one non-jagged edge with his left hand, adjusted his grip on the pistol, cautiously moved forward to the bow of the low-riding boat, leaned forward so that his chest and right arm were braced against the bow railing, hesitated, dug his left hand deep into the water in a single hard stroke, and then quickly pulled his hand out of the water.

The boat moved slightly forward and to the left.

That’s right, gotta use a ‘J’ stroke, just like they taught us at the training center, or I’m going to be going around in a big circle.

Steeling himself, Bulatt dug the piece of cowling deep into the water again, only this time in a ‘J’ stroke pattern, and saw with satisfaction that the outboard was now drifting more-or-less in the direction of the distant patrol boat lights.

Okay, just another fifty or sixty strokes. No problem.

Bulatt started to dig his hand deep into the water a third time when he felt the pressure wave suddenly surge up against the piece of cowling and barely managed to pull his hand away when the massive head of the huge tiger shark came lunging up out of the water beneath his fingers, the powerful jaws snapping at empty air. An instant later, the underside of the shark’s huge head crashed down on the boat’s already splintered railing, propelling Bulatt’s head forward and into the shark’s blunt sandpaper-like nose.

The night-vision goggles absorbed most of the impact, the lens scraping against the rasp-like skin as the goggles were ripped away from Bulatt’s face. Blinded now in the almost total darkness, he desperately shoved himself away from the thrashing shark’s head and snapping jaws; and then felt the recoil of the Beretta — and heard the concussive gunshots — before he even realized he was shooting.

The 9mm hollow-points ripped into the nose and gaping mouth of the fearsome-looking beast; its nightmarish black eye and glistening teeth intermittently visualized by the blinding gun-flashes.

Then, suddenly, the upper torso of the huge shark was completely visible — bathed in a brilliant overhead light — as it whipped its head away from the bullet impacts, jarring and nearly swamping the boat again, and then swung back in an instinctive and unrelenting attempt to reach its human prey.

Stunned by the horrific sight of the huge beast, whose jaws were snapping only inches away from his deflecting left hand and feet, Bulatt continued to fire as fast as he could pull the trigger, sending the last three bullets ripping into the shark’s left eye and brain as the Beretta’s slide locked open against the now-empty magazine.

Working on instinct and adrenaline now, Bulatt scrambled back to the rear of the violently rocking boat on his hands and knees, ejecting the empty magazine somewhere along the way, yanked another loaded magazine out of Kulawnit’s vest, slammed it into the Beretta’s grip, released the slide, and then whipped the pistol around, searching for the nightmarish creature.

But there was nothing on the rain-splattered surface; just the violent swirling of water a dozen yards away.

Go to it, guys, tear him apart, Bulatt thought, gasping for breath and silently cheering on the other sharks as he continued to stare at the churning surface. It was only when he finally managed to catch his breath that he realized he was still being bathed in a dazzling white light.

Wincing against the blinding glare, he looked up into the drizzling rain and found himself staring into the barrel of a machine gun mounted in the open doorway of a hovering Thai Coastal Patrol helicopter some fifty feet from and above the boat.

An amplified voice from the hovering chopper barked out what sounded like an order in Thai, but Bulatt had no idea what the words meant.

“You, in the boat,” the voice barked again, this time in English, “drop your weapon!”

Bulatt blinked in confusion, then looked down at his right hand and realized he was still holding Kulawnit’s empty pistol. He quickly dropped it at his feet — hearing the weapon splash into the water that was close to swamping the badly-damaged boat — and raised his hands high in the air.

As the helicopter moved in closer — now hovering less than twenty-five from and above the boat, the downdraft from its spinning blades churning the water and forcing Bulatt to try to maintain his balance with his wide-spread knees — the distant patrol boat began a wide turn in his direction.

South of Tanga Island, in the Malacca Strait — still in Thailand territory

They were a little more than twelve nautical miles off Tanga Island — Lanyard struggling with the few remaining controls while Gavin worked feverishly to stock the small dinghy with food, water, gasoline and a basic load of survival gear — when the vaguely soothing sound of the rain striking the flying bridge awning and windows of the wallowing Avatar was suddenly overwhelmed by a high-pitched shriek, followed by a concussive roar, that sent Lanyard and Gavin diving to their respective decks.

“What the bloody hell — ?!” Gavin yelled from the foredeck as he struggled to readjust his night-vision goggles.

“F-fives, pair of the buggers, probably flying out of Phuket,” Lanyard yelled back as he stared up at the twin-afterburners of the low-flying fighter jets. He continued to monitor the course of the planes — now just two rapidly dwindling pairs of bright green spots in the viewer of his night-vision goggles — until they finally disappeared in the distance.

“Good,” he sighed. “I don’t think they spotted us.” He looked around at the swirling fog now surrounding the Avatar. “Probably damn near impossible to see anything in this soup from the air, thank God.”

“You really think they’re out here looking for us?” Gavin asked as he scrambled back into the bridge.

“Would you be out flying low-level off-shore recon in this bloody weather, and in the middle of the night, unless some pissed-off general told you to get your arse up in the air and be quick about it?”

“You wouldn’t see me volunteering for the job,” Gavin acknowledged. Then, after a moment: “You think they’re going to care much about whose air space we’re in if they do spot us?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were them,” Lanyard said. “But then I — oh bloody hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Gavin asked, but the sudden shift in the decibel levels on the bridge gave him the answer he didn’t want to hear. “Don’t tell me we lost another bilge pump?”

“Afraid so, mate; down to one, now.” Lanyard stared glumly at the four grouped lights on the control panel, three of which were now glowing bright red.

“How much time, do you think?”

“At the rate we’re taking on water, maybe another twenty minutes; less if we lose the last pump. At that point, we might as well shut the engines off and pull the plugs ourselves.”

Gavin sighed. “Okay, I’d better start heaving the odd bits overboard. Anything you want me to hold back for a last go?”

Lanyard shook his head. “If they’ve got the Thai Navy and Air Force out looking for us, we’re way past a ‘last go.’ Toss everything that looks out of place on a fishing boat — the weapons and ammo first — but bring along extra batteries for the goggles and a couple of the emergency flashers to signal Wallis. We’ll keep that lot with us as long as we can; but the important thing, if they spot us, is to look exactly like a couple of distressed fishermen who buggered up their boat in the storm. Might not do us any good if we get picked up in Thai water, but it’s always worth a try.”

“What about this?” Gavin held up the shredded and bloody burlap sack.

“Toss that, too. Wallis’ll take our word for what happened. And besides, maybe it’ll give the sharks something to poke at instead of following after us.”